


Songs of a Death Eater

by BlueEyesBlueSkies



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Drama, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Fun, Magic, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-27 05:36:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20402527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueEyesBlueSkies/pseuds/BlueEyesBlueSkies
Summary: Post-wizarding world war, Rabastan Lestrange finds himself on parole, though still very much hated by wizarding society. He takes peace where he can, and winds up once again crossing paths with the delightful Miss Granger. If only she knew how delightful he truly finds her.If only he knew how delightful she, too, finds him.Work in progress, will update as able!





	Songs of a Death Eater

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for giving this little story a try! It is a work in progress, and will be updated as I am able. I'm not certain where it will lead, but I am along for the ride right along with you!
> 
> Song of the chapter- Prayin', by Kesha

He sat in front of the keys, Polyjuice disguise firmly entrenched, and let his mind go. 

Let himself be free.

Let his fingers trip one after another over the ivory, soaring, taking what was left of his soul with them, as he poured all of the anguish, all of the hurt, all of the pain into the music. Into the night. 

Music was always a source of peace for his tortured soul. 

A release.

A balm.

Most would probably say he didn’t deserve it; he knew without a doubt he bloody well didn’t. Yet it didn’t stop him from spending each and every Wednesday night after his weekly meeting with his parole Auror, at The Keys, pounding away on the only thing left in this world that let him touch it.

The only thing acknowledged his torment, his pain, while the whole world buzzed with judgment.

The only thing that truly accepted him anymore, even if he was too fearful to approach it as himself any longer.

He ended the piece with a twinkle of pain on the ivory, so overcome he was almost deafened when the silence of the bar gave way to roaring applause. He flushed crimson, with pleasure and embarrassment, before pushing back the bench and rising on his long legs. 

He didn’t deserve their praise. 

He never had, and he absolutely never would. Not with all he’d done.

He gave a tiny nod under the glare of the spotlights before pointedly stepping down and away from the stage. 

He’d allow himself these moments of indulgence, as he did each Wednesday, and he’d stay long enough to nurse one whiskey while watching the first few open-mic singers. He’d savor it, this moment of calm, of peace, of acceptance, a few beats more.

Then he’d leave.

Return home.

To a world that hated and feared him in equal measure.

To a flat that was as cold as his heart.

To the fate still far better than he deserved.

He gazed down as he swirled the quarter-finger left in his tumbler, before sighing and raising the glass to his lips. “Until next week, darling,” he murmured on a sigh, tipping the glass to roll the liquid over his tongue with regret.

He was mildly ashamed of himself for how long he savored the burn on his taste buds, prolonging the inevitable return to the painful world awaiting him.

The world he deserved.

The world far better than he deserved.

He’d earned each and every glare, every mouthful of spit, every cower of fear. Every whisper, every taunt, every hex or curse.

It didn’t matter that he’d recognized the error of his ways. It didn’t matter that he’d felt just as trapped in his fate as many others; no choice, no other option, but to persevere or perish.

He was a weak man, and his fear of death and hope of life had led him down a merry path to hell, all those years spent either dragging his feet in the darkness or repenting in his cell. And he had repented, wholeheartedly, which was why he was on parole in the first place. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t fully cognizant of his own guilt in bringing about his fate. 

He half-observed a skinny little thing with riotous curls sidle up to the stage to begin her act, and he finally swallowed his last mouthful of regret, returning his empty tumbler to the bar top with a _clink_.

He was buttoning up his coat when she turned to finally face the crowd, a nervous smile on her face, a nearly overflowing glass of blood red wine cradled in her small little fingers. 

His stomach sank to his knees, and he collapsed back into the stool with a rush of pain so sharp it physically ached in his chest, as she drew in a breath and opened those bright red lips to sing.

~*~

It had become something of a tradition for her. A sanctuary, if you would. A moment where she could cease being who she was. Or who they thought she was. Or who they wanted her to _be_.  
A moment, each week, where she could simply be.

It was a habit born from curiosity; fostered after an evening of good whiskey and better music while she learned, with astonishment, that Draco Malfoy had taken up playing _guitar_ of all things. Solidified by the grumblings of Ron and Harry over how certain they were one of the newly released death eaters had returned to his muggle-torturing ways. 

If there was one thing Hermione wouldn’t stand for, it was the strong trampling on the weak.

So she’d tailed him, after one of his weekly check-ins with Ron, and it took an _embarrassingly long_ three more weeks until she finally figured out why she lost him in the book shop each evening.

He was using Polyjuice- a clear violation of his parole.

She was intent on bringing him to justice, and frankly more than a little baffled that his hatred was _that strong_; that he needed to torture muggles _that badly_. She figured he’d lost what may have been left of his mind that second stint in Azkaban. 

Stealing herself and carefully drawing her wand, she’d followed him out into muggle London, intent on capturing him in the act and exacting swift justice. Never in her wildest dreams would she have guessed his true purpose. Not in a million years.

Not in a million _centuries_.

Ever since the first time she watched him, music seeming to burst forth from his very soul, she knew without a doubt his true purpose, his reasoning for the Polyjuice.

He was here for redemption. 

For a tiny slice of forgiveness. For the anonymity. For the peace.

Given who he was, hell who _she_ was, she could hardly blame him.

So it began, each and every Wednesday, after wrapping a day in trial in the Wizengamot or ending an evening of long hours and longer meetings, Hermione found herself here, in her now-favorite muggle bar, up on stage with a double helping of wine and no other wizard or witch in sight. A place with no fear of press, no fear of reprisal. No fear of false praise or whispered rumors.

No fear of failure.

No fear of him.

And she stole, just a few moments, for her sanity.

For herself.

For her own redemption, really. Her own peace.

She never really knew what song or two she would sing before she got there, and she was always careful to emerge on the stage well after she saw him depart. Once she was absolutely sure he was gone, and she was the only magical being left in the place. She’d sit in the dark corner booth off to the side, and watch him, a few acts before her, fostering her courage and strengthening her nerves, until with clarity a song would come to her with such ferocity she couldn’t help but share it with the world.

She couldn’t help but give it a piece of her heart.

She’d arrived a bit earlier than she usually did today, the need to see him almost compelling her to arrive early just to be sure she didn’t miss it. 

Didn’t miss him.

Hermione snuggled into her favorite corner seat to watch, nursing her first generous helping of wine. She was never certain, until he hit the stage, which one was actually _him_. It became something of a favorite game, guessing whether he was even disguised as a _he_ at all. 

As she fidgeted in her seat, cracking open a peanut shell, she couldn’t help but start to hum as a tall, balding gentleman began to finger the keys of the gorgeous Baldwin grand highlighted center stage. Two measures in, and her prized peanut was forgotten, its wrapping shredded in her fingers, as her breath was stolen from her lungs and her eyes were locked on the stage.

Locked on him.

She’d know that music anywhere. 

That song.

That man.

It was pure mastery, the way he played. _No, not played_, she hummed to herself with a shake of her head. Played was too simple a word, too plain, too dull to describe the tidal wave of emotion put on display. 

Owned. He didn’t play the music, he _owned_ it. It was overpowering. Dominating. Draining.

It was him.

She narrowed her eyes and took in a generous mouthful of wine. A generous mouthful of _him_.

Polyjuice or no, she would know that man anywhere. He haunted her dreams, not only her nightmares.

He haunted her _soul_.

She’d worked his trial, grinding out long days and even longer nights as she wrapped herself up entirely in it, striving for truth. Striving for justice.

Striving, striving so hard, just as she always did. 

As she always would.

_Particularly_ for him.

It would seem strange to all, were she ever to voice it aloud. The thoughts she had. The truths she held. The dreams. 

But her eyes and her heart knew what they knew, and in the final battle, despite his cloak and mask, despite his bloody Lord, he’d fought _for her_. Not against. It was his magic she felt wash over her, time and time again, erecting shields, offering strength, shooting off hexes towards her enemies and protections for her. 

She hadn’t wanted to believe it, that some death eater was secretly on the side of the light. 

Secretly working for good. In the aftermath she’d strolled the wreckage, her core calling out to the core that had saved it.

Her magic, calling out for the magic that had tangled with it. 

For _him_.

It wasn’t until she’d hit the clearing of bound death eaters that it hit her full force that it was for certain one of them. One of _them_ had risked themselves for _her_. 

Two months of dreams and the itch of a mystery unsolved later, and she had marched her way into the bowels of Azkaban to uncover just which wizard or witch had thrown their magic over her body, over and over, keeping her safe, keeping her alive. 

Keeping her whole.

She was stunned, truly stunned, when she stalked past the cell, and felt _him_.

Hermione hadn’t wasted one moment after that. He wouldn’t spend the remainder of his life in a cell, when he was the very reason she was likely alive in the first place.

She’d spent weeks researching first life debts, wondering why in Merlin’s name he hadn’t called one in on her. Hell, she might even owe him more than one, if she were being honest. That same magical signature had stalked her throughout the whole bloody war, and it was on more than one occasion she felt the whisper of it in warning right before a disastrous turn. 

Alerting her.

Preparing her.

Comforting her. It was the same magical core that protected what shards it could of her own, even as she writhed in agony on the Malfoy’s floor.

She knew with certainty that if the roles were reversed, if the darkness had won, he wouldn’t allow a fate like Azkaban, a fate worse than death, for her either. 

She’d stalked him, truthfully. Stalked his life. His home. His passions. 

His music, though that was a more recent obsession.

She’d thrown herself, mind, body, and spirit, into defending the indefensible, as most would term him. 

And she’d won.

Hermione struggled to wipe the silent tears tracking down her cheeks as she watched his fingers caress the final, dreamy notes.

She knew the song she’d sing, knew it in her magical core.

She’d sing the only song he’d ever need to hear.

And, just this once. Just this one Wednesday.

She’d sing it for him.

~*~

He was trapped. Snared in her gaze. Captured in the song.

She broke him, and she didn’t even know it was him. She couldn’t. 

Yet, with each verse, each heartfelt note, each musical run, he questioned more and more.

She couldn’t know, could she? That the man she was staring at, the man she was singing to, the man she was ruining and destroying and breathing life back into all at once, was him.

It was laughable, wasn’t it?

She couldn’t _possibly_ know. There was no possible way Hermione Granger was singing to, singing _for_, one of the worst death eaters of all.

He shut his eyes tight, letting her melodious tones trickle into his ear, past his wounded heart, straight into his aching core.

His aching soul.

A soul he was stunned to find was even still there at all.

She couldn’t know. 

Certainly. 

And yet…

The tears fell freely now, drenching his skin, dripping to the floor below, as she pierced him once more and reached right down into the tatters of his soul.

**“Oh, sometimes I pray for you at night**   
**Someday, maybe you’ll see the light**   
**Oh, some say, in life, you’re gonna get what you give**   
**But some things only God can forgive”**

He was sobbing openly, the pain so swift, the ache so sure, his entire body shook with the force of it, as his heart clenched tight in his chest and his magic reached out to tangle in the space between them with hers.

**“I hope you’re somewhere prayin’, prayin’**   
**I hope your soul is changing’, changing’**   
**I hope you find your peace**   
**Falling on your knees, prayin’.”**

He knelt his head in shame, in absolution, in defeat. In pain.

He dropped his chin, touching it right to the top of his knees where he’d collapsed on the ground under the weight of her magic.

The weight of her words.

The weight of her healing.

He knelt, and he cried.

And when her hand gently touched his shoulder, before caressing the top of his bald, borrowed head, he couldn’t help but emit a wrenching sob. 

“Buy me a drink? Same place, this time next week? I only ask that you come as yourself,” she was soft, soothing. So much more than he deserved.

His entire body convulsed as he nodded into his knees. He’d give her everything and anything she’d ever desire. Anything he could.

How could he refuse her, even when he knew without a doubt he never deserved such a gift?

She was the reason his soul took a breath for the first time in ages. 

Time and time again. 

He felt lightness being prodded. He felt it being reborn. The same as he had in the Ministry. The same as he had at the Malfoys. The same as he had at the final battle.

The same as he was sure he likely always would, were she ever near.

“Are you sure? Are you sure it’s me you want to taint yourself with?” He couldn’t help his self-loathing nature, but he had to know. Had to be sure.

He felt her tiny fingers dance through the tears on his face to gently lift his chin, and with a sucked-in breath he dared to raise his eyes.

Her gentle smile was brighter than the sun. Better than the stars. Softer than the moon.   
“Rabastan, I can’t imagine anyone else I’d rather see more.”


End file.
